Death at Rottingdean (23 page)

“A skiff?” Harry asked, puzzled.

The man did not answer the question. “You will not see me, but I shall know what transpires and evaluate your performance accordingly.” He smiled grimly. “This will be, as it were, your first test. Do you understand?”

Harry understood all too well. A vast and desperate anxiety began to rise up in him.

“Very good. I will contact you when it is safe to resume our operation. Until then, you must carefully monitor the course of the official investigation. You should particularly keep your eye on a certain party by the name of Sheridan, who is staying here in Rottingdean. He may prove meddlesome.”

Harry nodded.

The man pulled his waterproof around him. “It would seem, then, that the game is afoot. And that, Mr. Tudwell, is all I have to say today.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait!” Harry cried, feeling that his lifeline was about to be cut. Fear him or not, this man was his only contact with the investors—his only contact beyond the village. And the village itself, and the villagers, now seemed terribly threatening.

The man turned, frowning. “Yes?”

A dozen questions were turning in Harry's mind. He grasped at one. “Wot ... wot's t' be done with the goods we've got squirreled away down below? Where are we t' haul 'em?”

“Nowhere, for the moment. Until you hear from me again, you are simply to store the merchandise. Except for small lots that may be used for local consumption, discreetly and with proper accounting. No more questions. I am off.”

The door closed and the man was gone before Harry could try once again to detain him. He sank helplessly into his chair, beaten, utterly exhausted, trembling uncontrollably. The man was Foxy's murderer, of that he was certain. And that he could be the next victim, of that he was certain, too.

Harry's visitor, on the other hand, strode powerfully down the brick-paved walkway, his cape rustling, his gear clanging at every step. If he saw the boy shrink quickly out of sight into the first loose-box, he gave no visible sign of it. But who could know, masked as he was, what he had seen?

Honesty is for the most part less profitable than dishonesty.

—PLATO
The Republic

It is an honest town ...

—MARK TWAIN “The Man
that Corrupted Hadleyburg”

 

 

 

D
eep in thought, with Lawrence on the seat beside him, Charles piloted the Panhard up the cobbled High Street of Rottingdean. He was oblivious to the delirious shouts of small children and the stares and head-shakings of pedestrians who had never before seen a motorcar, and he was startled into a full awareness of his surroundings only by the furious shout of a man who was herding a flock of half-a-dozen nervous sheep across the street. He pulled on the brake and brought the motorcar to a shuddering halt just in front of Seabrooke House, leaving the engine idling noisily.

“Ah, Lawrence,” he said, pulling his goggles up. “We have arrived.”

“Yessir,” Lawrence said. “Want me t' put ‘er in th' carriage 'ouse, sir?”

“Yes, yes, please do,” Charles said distractedly, and took off his duster. “Let her ladyship know that I have returned, but that I have one or two important errands in the village.” He lifted his tweed motoring cap and smoothed his wind-ruffled hair. “I shall return by teatime, I expect.”

“Very good, sir,” Lawrence said, and slid into the driver's seat. The Panhard chugged off up the street, and Charles turned to walk down the street, toward the Gap.

 

The constable's office occupied the front half of a narrow wooden building on the Newhaven Road, the back half of which was taken up by the jail. One of the cells had been occupied for the night by Rafe Hawkins, whom Constable Woodhouse had reluctantly imprisoned on a charge of wife-beating on a warrant sworn out by Rafe's angry mother-in-law. But after a night's cooling off, the young wife, babe in her arms and both eyes purpled, had appeared to plead for her husband's release so that he could go to his employment. The constable had willingly complied, sending Rafe off with a compassionate pat on the back. It gave Jack Woodhouse a great deal of satisfaction when the minor domestic misunderstandings that made up such a large part of his work could be resolved with so little effort.

Now, seated comfortably in his chair, a steaming cup of tea at his elbow and the sporting page of the weekly
Brighton Herald
spread out on the desk in front of him, Constable Woodhouse—Fat Jack to his friends and acquaintances—was the very image of a comfortable and contented man: plump, rosy-cheeked, slow of movement. A lazy man, some might also add, and they would have been right. But Fat Jack Woodhouse had long ago discovered that, where the business of life was concerned, idleness offered greater rewards than industry, and honesty less profit than dishonesty. Watching the wall, as the old adage had it, paid off. This revelation had certainly made Fat Jack's tenure as the constable of Rottingdean much easier and more comfortable than it might otherwise have been. As he contemplated his declining decades, he had little to complain or worry about.

But anyone who knew the constable well would see the unwonted furrows between the eyes, notice the nervous chewing of the black mustache, and observe that despite the favorable conclusion of this morning's domestic drama and the larger satisfactions of his life in general, Fat Jack Woodhouse was deeply worried. Even as he digested the fine steak-and-kidney pie that had been his luncheon, the constable was already feeling the first twinges of a nervous stomach, brought on by the workings of an unquiet mind.

A shadow darkened the open doorway, and the constable looked up from the cricket results. The gentleman standing easily before him had a neat brown beard and was dressed in a brown tweed walking suit, brown boots, and tweed cap. He inclined his head and spoke in a deep, cultured voice.

“Good afternoon, Constable Woodhouse.”

With a sharp misgiving, the constable recognized Lord Sheridan. He had appeared with that meddling Kipling fellow on the beach when the constable was trying to handle the business of the body, and offered to take photographs of the whole sordid mess. A bother, as far as Fat Jack was concerned. Anyway, it wasn't a good idea to have pictures. Sometimes they showed more than you'd like, and they got handed around for others to look at.

“M'lord,” he growled, folding the newspaper and pulling out a sheaf of papers, making it as plain as he could that he was occupied with official business and that his lordship was intruding upon his valuable time.

The visitor stepped into the room and stood in front of the desk, ignoring the chair meant for visitors. He brought the conversation directly to the point. “I am here at the request of the Crown to ask you a few questions concerning the deaths of George Radford and Captain Smith.”

Fat Jack felt his mouth fall open, and he shut it with an audible click. His stomach lurched. “The Crown?”

“The dead men were Her Majesty's coast guards,” Lord Sheridan replied. “If you feel it necessary to verify my authority for this inquiry, you may telegraph the chief constable at Brighton.” His expression was bland, but his eyes were challenging. “I shall be happy to accompany you to the post office and wait with you until you receive Sir Robert's reply.”

Fat Jack swiftly weighed the likelihood that the gentleman was lying against the effort required to walk to the post office and send a telegram, and decided to take his lordship at his word. He sighed. “That won't be necess' ry,” he said. “Sit down, sir.”

But Lord Sheridan preferred to stand. Fat Jack, feeling that to look up at his questioner would put him at a schoolboy's disadvantage, reluctantly stood, hitching up his sagging trousers.

“Well, then,” he said loudly, trying to sound like a man with no troubles at the back of his mind, “what questions was yer lordship wantin' to ask?”

Lord Sheridan met his eyes. “I understand that you examined George Radford's body. What did you determine to be the cause of his death?”

Fat Jack hastily reached back in his mind to his conversation with Harry Tudwell and the explanation they had concocted. At the time, Harry had persuaded him that it was their best course of action—indeed, their only course of action. Now, he wondered why they had ever thought such a bizarre story would satisfy anyone who seriously inquired. But it was too late. He had nothing better to offer. He swallowed.

“Th' young chap killed 'isself,” he said lamely.

“And how did you come to that conclusion, Constable Woodhouse?” Lord Sheridan asked in a conversational tone.

Fat Jack chewed on his mustache, trying to ignore the sharp teeth gnawing at his innards. “Well, m‘lord,” he said reluctantly, “there was a bloodstain on the front of 'im, an' ‘e was drownded. It seemed to me that 'e flung 'isself off the cliff an' 'appened to fall on ‘is knife on the way down. Anybody'll tell ye that the boy suffered black moods, and was given to drink. A despairin' sort 'e were, m'lord.”

Lord Sheridan gave him a thoughtful look. “I just came from the performance of George Radford's autopsy, Constable Woodhouse. I must inform you that the young man neither fell on his sword nor drowned.”

Fat Jack's stomach cramped. “M'lord?”

“The surgeon found a nick on the dorsal surface of the fourth rib.”

Fat Jack stared blankly. “M'lord?”

Lord Sheridan spoke in a crisp, factual tone. “The victim could have received such an injury only if the blade that killed him was thrust from the rear. What is more, the abrasions on his wrists and ankles—which you might have seen, Constable, had you looked closely—suggest that the body was bound to a heavy weight. And further, a man was observed putting the body into a skiff and rowing it out to sea.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Mr. Radford was murdered.”

A burning sensation arose in Fat Jack's gullet. He swallowed. “Well, I...” He felt sweat bead out on his forehead and his cheeks go pale. “If ye say so, m‘lord. I'm sure it's a surprise to me m'lord.” He licked his lips and asked the dreaded question. “ 'Oo was the man wi' th' skiff?”

“The witness could not see him plainly.”

He let out a small breath, feeling relief flood through him. He placed the flat of his hands on his desk to support himself. “An' 'oo was th' witness?”

“I cannot answer that. Are you quite all right, Constable?”

“Just a lit'le indigestion,” Fat Jack said, and burped. “Too many onions.” A witness? Who was the witness?

“Yes. Well, then, now that you know the facts, Constable Woodhouse, and since you know the village, perhaps you can tell me who might have had a reason to kill Mr. Radford.” Lord Sheridan's eyes were as hard as two brown buttons. “Who might have wanted the man dead?”

Fat Jack's mind, unbidden, flew back again to his conversation with Harry Tudwell. Of course any of the men in the village could have killed young Radford, and might've done so, under the circumstances. But Tudwell was the cleverest and the most resolute of the lot and, next to Foxy himself, had the strongest reason to resent Radford's nosing into village affairs. If he offered Harry Tudwell as a suspect, would this insistent man go away? But if he offered Tudwell and the killer turned out to be someone else, what would happen when word got about that he had slipped the stablemaster's name to the investigator? It was not the ethics of betrayal that troubled him—Fat Jack, like everyone else in the village, recalled with great clarity what fate had befallen the ten-shilling men.

“ ‘Oo wanted 'im dead?” The constable made his face blank and shook his head. “I'm sure I don't know, m‘lord. This is a 'onest an' a law-abidin' village.”

“Honest and law-abiding?” Lord Sheridan's mouth quirked. “And yet you've just had two murders.”

Fat Jack frowned, thinking that perhaps he should have gone to the bother of sending that telegram. What if this man wasn't who he claimed to be? What if he were one of the investors, making a private inquiry into the two deaths? He cleared his throat.

“I don't know anything about th' second killin‘,” he said defensively. “By the time I 'eard Cap'n Smith was shot an' went up to th' windmill to ‘ave a look, the lot from Brighton was already there, pokin' about.” He frowned again, conscious that he was telling a lie—several lies, in fact—and added, in a surly tone, an honest truth. “I didn't take it none too lightly that they came on my turf wi'out doin' me the curt'sy o' lettin' me know.”

“I'm sure you didn't,” Lord Sheridan replied pleasantly. “Well, then, since you are aware that Captain Smith was also murdered on your turf, as you say, let us put the question another way. Who, in your opinion, might have had reason to kill these two men?”

Fat Jack, struggling against his insubordinate stomach, tried to think of some halfway intelligent response. “Well, sir, since they was both coast guards and both murdered, I'd say it was likely that one man killed both of 'em.”

Lord Sheridan shook his head, frowning. “That assumption is unwarranted, Constable Woodhouse. They could have been killed by different people.”

Fat Jack felt himself to be at a great disadvantage. He could say hardly anything without revealing what he knew, and what little he could say made him sound like the village idiot. “Well, m‘lord,” he said finally, “the coast guard at Black Rock was not much liked round 'ere. ‘E could've been done in by almost anybody.”

“Not much liked? Why not?”

“B‘cause, sir, 'e ... well, 'e poked about.” Fat Jack wanted terribly to sit down. “ 'E didn't just stick to coast guardin' along ‘is section o' cliff.”